Etty saw Rowan, daughter of Robin Hood, lifting her green kirtle, her brown braid lashing like a wildcat's tail as she tried to run.

She lay all too aware of how frost stiffened her hair, furred her blankets.

Walking away barefoot on the soft loam, with mist rising in ribbons all around her, Etty tucked the year's first violets into her hair.

Face Guy of Gisbourne? Not likely, not anytime soon, thank you very much.